Reunion
by ViciousVigilante
Summary: A former quel'dorei regains his lost lover. The story is set sometime before the WOTLK Battle for Undercity. Rated M for explicit content, strong language and overall filthy atmosphere. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

"Cut an unripe poppy boll, take out the contents and place into a closed dish. Grind dried laugh-weed that grows in the Ghostlands. Crush a depleted fel crystal in a mithril mortar. Pour both into the dish and dry over fire. Put the black tar under your tongue, or powder it again and breath it in".

Quite a nasty thing, by the way. But what else is left? You can't find pure morphine anywhere these days. Damn those brothels – all the best stuff goes there. And even if it were available – my miserable wages still wouldn't be enough.

And even for those… Some ten years ago I wouldn't even notice those mercenary bastards. Nothing but dust under my boots. And now, be so kind, spread your buttocks. Or die in the nearest back street from withdrawal. Not much of a choice.

Not that I've never considered that final option. No, I did, but more than once or twice. I don't have even a dagger, though. That's nothing, still… Just walk the Murder Row at a wrong hour – and it's done. But this is not what I survived for. And what for? Who knows…

What's the difference, though? The stinky piece of tar from the pouch travels into my mouth, the hard back of the chair touches mine, weary and exhausted, the den's ceiling moves apart, myriads of stars shine from the skies, the night glade is filled with the fragrance of herbs, your hands wander on my body, you cling to me, hot, smelling of sun at noon, I wish to hug you, hide in a shining cocoon of light, never to let you go, never and for nothing, the world spins around us, inconstant, unsteady, silhouettes become twisted, the trees' barks crackle, revealing green pus, a cold, piercing wrings you away from me, peels the skin off your face, tears up your veins, turns your fear-stricken features into a dead man's grin… you laugh into my face, the ground opens up under my feet, the almost-bare skull fills all the space, I fall, deeper, deeper, BANG!

- Be careful, or you'll break that chair. – a strange voice rips into my drug-tormented mind. With a great effort I crack my eyes open – no, it seems the nightmare is not over yet. The dark corner of a damn low dive in one of the crooked streets, pouring like dirty streams into the ocean of the Bazaar – and this face. Wait, is it just the face? Why does this bloody voice sound so familiar?

- What shit are you on? I've never seen a living so thrashed. Damn, now I don't regret being dead. I wouldn't want such a fate for myself.

At last I manage to focus my eyes. And immediately I fall back against the chair, moaning from withdrawal which is should have come in at least an hour. Dim eyes, grey, torn skin, some rags instead of glittery armor, grey, tangled hair. But still it is him.

- Why do you have that look, don't you like me? – yeah, and the voice is the same, although it sounds like out of a cracked jar, although there is now a tinge of hidden malice in it… - I mean, look at yourself. You're pale like death, and those bags under your eyes… I don't even ask where you got this slutty shirt and pants and how did you squander the money for your armor. And why you wear such a disgusting haircut. – that bastard. When was the last time he looked at himself in the mirror?

- So that the customers wouldn't drag my hair. – why would I hide it? Let him know. What's the difference now? – How did you get here, by the way? – the tongue won't work well, as always after a trip, and now this… - You were…

- Dead, yeah? – now the voice sounds bitter. – Right. So what? Don't tell me you're living a life now.

It's silly to sit with mouth agape – if only I knew how to answer that. Furthermore, he did not answer my question in the first place.

- I ran, ran like hell. Now Undercity is not a place for those like me. – he jerks his half-ear, as if affirming his own words. If you look in a wrong direction – the Stalkers will get you in a moment. Moreover, we don't expect Sylvanas to come back anytime soon.

- Wait… - the realization tears through the remains of the mind-blocking haze. – Have you been looking for me?

- It was hard, by the way. Especially because I started with the knights. They threw me out, naturally. I won't ask why you aren't there. – that's better, no problems and long explanations. – I'm not much of a Dark Ranger myself, as you can see. – this smirk still looks creepy.

- No, I do understand… - I mean, I don't understand a damn thing, - but… why? – how stupid must I look: sitting here and staring at an undead with lips half-open. It's good noone's looking. – Can't you guess? – I suppose I'll have to get adjusted to this look as well. – I missed you, if you wish. Don't be surprised, we can do that, too. Better than some of you, by the way. I suppose you haven't remembered me even once.

- How dare you… You… I will…

- You will… what? – still he is the same. – If you mean what I think you mean, then I've already got a room. Well, shall we go?

No, he definitely loves to make an idiot of me. The worst part is that I have nothing in response. I mean, nothing at all. So I sit and stare, like a hawkstrider at a new fold. And then I rise and follow him. Cursing myself, him and all this damn world in advance. And I cacth a glimpse of a vial on his belt with something like… Yeah, sure, almost transparent and quite viscid. He has prepared well. Bastard…


	2. Chapter 2

Dammit, what a room… Not only it reeks of something musty, like… no, there is no comparison for that. The smell of rooms in such dens isn't like anything. It's awful, but you can get used to anything.

And here is also this torn mattress, and the bed… I bet it will fall apart. And the window right below the ceiling. Like in a cell, really…

- I'm ready. And you?

I will never get used to that voice. It seems to be His – and at the same time something different, as if from behind a gravestone. Coming from the right… Fuck.

No, of course he always could undress quickly, but not _that_ quickly… I could barely look around the room. The rags form a shapeless heap on the floor. So… strange. I gaze – and cannot turn away, but something disgustingly sweetish comes up my throat. He seems to have become even more slim than before. Or, rather, withered? The thin, tender skin, on which every bite left a bruise – has seemingly grown even sinner. Jet-black decomposing spots dot the palish gray, somewhere it hangs in scraps, the ribs, which could always be seen, have worn through the flesh in several places… I must run from here immediately, this very second, and forget this like a nightmare. Only… I don't want. Not in the least. Whether it is the drug to blame, or this reunion – I don't know. I'm standing – and trembling. Like a damned idiot.

- Are you going to stand like that forever? – I shudder again. This dissatisfied tone – it cannot be forgotten. And this dancing gait – too. Only the bones our clanking. Every sound – like a shot into the spine. And he unclasps the buttons on the shirt just as adroitly as before. Only the touches are ice cold. And shivers run across my whole body. I'm sure I look silly beyond measure.

It's strange – every move, every touch provokes a flood of memories. Everything is like back then… but it's not right, it's monstrous, it's sinister… Ah, what the hell!

I've always loved to tousle his hair. And it turns out to be just as pleasant now – although they've become dry, although I can almost feel them falling apart under my fingers… Is his tongue, sliding down my chest lower and lower, to the laces of the pants, cold an dry, even a little worse than before, that hot and moist little snake? No. Then why am I trembling, like leaf in a thunderstorm? I don't know… It is too hard to stand on my legs when a cold ring embraces my penis at its base. Now this is very different. He never liked taking it whole, he said he was gagging. It's much better this way… And his rotten smell is almost gone. No, I can't stop feeling it - but I can just forget it. Forget for a few perfect minutes in all these useless years. He might feel hot right now – if only he can. It seems to be the last thought. Close my eyes, succumb to his power, melt under his touches, fuse with the bony fingers, cracked lips, withered tongue… and feel down there the strain, the pleasure, the languor, which had barely espaced from the cold embrace, grow and grow incessantly – too hard to stand… My hand on the back of his head, I can't wait any longer, I'll fuck him – here and now. He is like a part of me, I could be the way he is – if that arrow had found another target… To hell with memory and all its antics! Now there is nothing but the sweet languor, on the verge of pain, growing with every push, every move of the hips – and relieving itself in a moment. Actually, in a few seconds, but how can I, molten under the pressure of dead caress, keep account of moments?

As soon as I open my eyes I meet the cunning shade in his gaze, that damned shade that is still there like everything else. The tongue slides back into the mouth like a piece of snake skin, gathering the last drops from thin lips. The mouth breaks into a smile, baring decayed teeth with slightly protruded fangs.

- You haven't changed a bit, you know.

A pause. A deep breath.

- Neither have you.


End file.
